


Shadow and Light

by NyteFlyer



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Gay Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyteFlyer/pseuds/NyteFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Timmy stops smiling, Donald’s ghosts hover near….</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow and Light

**Author's Note:**

> The writer in me has always been fascinated by the staying power of words. Once spoken, they can never be taken back, no matter how much the speaker regrets saying them. Like hairline cracks in the foundation of a house, they can be insidious, quietly spreading and growing, often going unnoticed until too late. If they aren’t dealt with promptly, severe and permanent structural damage may result….

No one’s smile could match Timmy’s.

  
When Donald Strachey met Timothy Callahan, the first thing he noticed was that Timmy didn’t smile the way other men smile. He didn’t “smile” at all, as Donald had previously understood the definition of the word. He _beamed_ , eyes shining and face illuminated from within, his sweet, toothy grin stretched impossibly wide as he bounced on his toes or walked with that extra little hop in his step, the very epitome of joyful celebration. Donald’s heart always did a back flip when he saw Timmy alight, and it was a very rare thing for him not to jump right in and join the party.

For years, that more-than-a-smile had been Donald’s beacon, illuminating the dark corners of his world, leaving no nook or cranny in which any but the most tenacious of ghosts could hide. But Timmy had stopped smiling, and now those old, grim spectres, always opportunistic, took advantage of the deepening shadows to hover near.

It hadn’t happened overnight. Of that much, at least, Donald was certain. As attuned to each other as they were, he would have noticed a sudden change and been on it like a duck on a June bug, as his Grammy Rosa used to say. But this was something gradual, something insidious that had crept up on him while he wasn’t watching, slowly dimming the light of his life until he awoke one day, blinking in confusion and dismay, oppressed by the encroaching darkness.

It wasn’t as if they were fighting, though Donald almost wished they were. Their fights had always been loudly vocal and -- though neither of them would admit it -- largely recreational, brief but spirited flashes in the pan that cleared the air and provided the excuse for equally spirited make-up sex. And it wasn’t as if Donald sensed Timmy was pissed at him. Tim got pissed off more often than most people change underwear, but it was a fond and forgiving kind of pissed that flared then faded as soon as Timmy got whatever it was off his chest. Timmy wasn’t one to bottle up his emotions, thank God. Clear as a mountain stream and just as exuberant, he was every bit as easy to see through, and the bubble and sparkle of his personality in turns exhilarated Donald and soothed his spirit. Usually.

Now there seemed to be an almost palpable sadness about Tim that colored every moment they shared together. Formerly an irrepressible chatterbox, Timmy became silent and pensive, leaning over the kitchen counter and aimlessly tracing patterns in the granite, glassy-eyed and unaware, or standing at the front window and staring out into the night, hugging himself as if he were cold, lost in a place where Donald couldn’t follow. If Donald made a sudden sound or touched him without warning, he’d start, looking flustered as a slow burn splotched his cheeks, and avert his gaze, unable to mask the sorrow in his eyes.

Oh, Timmy still went through the motions. He remained affectionate and attentive, keeping Donald’s dinner warm and his martinis cold, clean underwear and socks readily available and life organized and comfortable to a degree Donald could never achieve on his own. He still responded willingly enough to any and all romantic overtures, although when Donald thought about it, he realized it had been a long time since Tim had initiated anything from a cozy cuddle on the couch to a mad grappling between the sheets. Timmy had never been a passive partner before. Surprisingly wanton beneath that prim exterior and emotionally needy, he usually was, if anything, the antithesis of passive.

But what worried -- no, _frightened_ \-- Donald the most was the dimming of that heart-catching smile. Timmy still laughed politely at events social or political, chuckled -- albeit anemically -- at Donald’s teasing. His eyes still crinkled at the corners, his lips curved upward and parted, revealing a gleaming row of immaculately maintained teeth. Mechanically and anatomically, all was as it should be. Yet there was no doubt in Donald’s mind that on a deeper level, something was wrong, all wrong.

Donald, being Donald, hounded him for answers. “What is it?” he asked again and again. “Spill it, Timothy. Is it me? Is it something I’ve done?”

“Of course not,” Timmy inevitably replied, touching Donald’s hand or giving him a peck on the cheek that was meant to be reassuring, but fell woefully short of the mark. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

Fighting a growing panic, Donald tried to remedy the situation as best he could. He’d been burning a lot of midnight oil lately, trying to build the business and get the two of them on firmer financial ground. It was possible -- probable, even -- that Timmy was feeling neglected. So he surprised him with flowers and impromptu dinners out, concert tickets and walks in the park. He made a real effort to pick up after himself, and he dumped the more routine after-hours surveillance gigs in Kenny’s moderately capable lap, assuring that for the first time in all their years together, he spent more evenings home with Timmy than not. On the rare occasions when he was the first to make it home from work, he had a pitcher of martinis made or a bottle of pinot noir chilling, and met Timmy at the door with a tender smile, a warm hug, and soft jazz playing in the background. Toning down the bitchiness factor, he pulled on the penguin suit and escorted Timmy to endless fundraisers and other mind-numbing political events with nary a whine nor a whimper, doing his level best to look less bored than he felt as he shadowed his spouse on the interminable meet-and-greet circuit.

God help him, he even tried to cook.

Timmy responded to it all with mouth curving in that pseudo-smile that never reached his eyes, a vague brush of lips against his cheek and a murmured thanks. All the while Donald felt him drifting farther away, his light growing ever fainter until it was in danger of winking out.

For Donald, sleep became a thing of the past. The nightmares that Timmy’s warm and steadying presence had gradually neutralized over the years now returned with a vengeance, filling his nights with surrealistic visions of fear and pain and irreparable loss. Ghosts long banished returned to taunt him: An endless army of one night stands reminding him that he wasn’t relationship material. His parents, long dead and still resonating disapproval, finally vindicated now that his marriage to Timmy seemed to be on the same downhill slide everything else he‘d attempted to do with his life had taken. And Kyle, always and forever Kyle….

Telling Timmy about Kyle had freed Donald in ways he’d never imagined. Sobbing out his pain in Timmy’s arms had purged him of the poison that had eaten away at him since Kuwait. Timmy had listened without jealousy or judgment, murmuring endearments and cradling him close through the second longest night of his life. The next morning, Donald had emerged drained but more optimistic than he’d ever been before, sure beyond all doubt that with the shameful secret between them gone at last, he and Timmy were assured a future filled with love and light. Now, less than three months later, that light was all but out, and Donald’s darkest fears held him hostage as never before.

One evening, Timmy stood at the sink for a good five minutes after the last dish was washed, just rubbing his fingers together under a weak stream of water, looking so heartbroken Donald’s own heart all but shattered in empathy. Enough was enough.

“This is killing me,“ Donald said, wrapping his arms around Timmy’s waist from behind and pressing his face hard between the taller man’s shoulder blades. “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?“ Sighing, Timmy turned off the water and leaned back into the embrace. Then he pulled away and delivered the most chilling statement any man can hear from the person he plans to spend the rest of his life with.

“We need to talk.”

* * * *

Donald’s stomach clenched at the tone of Timmy’s voice as much as the words themselves, though they were bad enough. When Timmy had something to say, he just said it without preamble. He wasn’t a fan of melodramatic build-ups any more than Donald was. Just how bad could this be?

“Okay,” Donald managed to say evenly enough. He slid onto a barstool and pulled another one out, indicating that Timmy should join him. “So…let’s talk.”

Timmy squared his shoulders as if preparing for battle. He cleared his throat. “Not here. In the other room, I think.”

Numb, Donald nodded. He lead the way into the living room and sank down onto the couch, taking little comfort from its familiar, butt-hugging embrace. Again, he gestured for Timmy to join him, and again Timmy squared his shoulders, cleared his throat.

In a gesture that went straight to Donald’s heart, Timmy’s shoulders suddenly slumped and he jammed his hands into his pockets, folding into a defensive posture Donald had seen often enough for warning bells to go off inside his head. “Sweetheart….”

Flinching as if he’d been dealt a blow, Timmy pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes hard, grinding his fingers into them with such force Donald was afraid he might actually injure himself. “Oh God, this is so hard,” he said so softly Donald had to strain to hear him.

“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. We always do,” Donald said, surprised that his voice sounded as steady as it did. Steady was the last thing he was feeling. “Come sit with me,” he said, extending a hand that betrayed him with the slightest of tremors. “Come on, honey. You’re freaking me out here.”

Timmy drew a deep breath, making a visible effort to steady himself. He sat stiffly by Donald‘s side with his hands folded in his lap, not quite looking at him. “I’ve been happy with you, Donald. I want you to know that.”

“I’ve been happy with you, too. I think you do know that.”

“I hope so. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, really. So that’s why I need to ask now if you think it’s time for…” Timmy paused, searching for words.  “…for a natural progression to take place.”

Something cold and steely clenched in the pit of Donald’s stomach. “Exactly what kind of progression are we talking about?”

“A tearing down of boundaries.”

Donald reached for Timmy’s hand, pulling it into his own lap, where it lay limp and unresponsive, a cool, perfectly manicured, lifeless thing nestled between his palms. He squeezed it, panic mounting when it didn’t squeeze back. “I didn’t think there were any boundaries left between us,” he managed to say at last.

“I’m not referring to boundaries between us. What I’m suggesting is an… exploration of larger possibilities.”

“Timmy….”

“I want to see our partnership continue, Don.”

Partnership. Donald made note of the word choice. Not Marriage. When had it stopped being a marriage? “So do I!”

“Recently, I’ve begun to wonder if there’s only one way to assure that.”

“Timmy….”

Timothy stared down at their joined hands, unable to meet Donald’s eyes. “I’ve been wondering if you were wanting to consider the possibility of an open relationship.”

Donald’s mind shut down, refusing to process Timmy’s words. “Open? Open to what?”

“Open to other people.”

Donald’s stomach clenched again, this time hard enough to send him running, scrambling up the stairs in a desperate attempt to get as far away from Timothy as he could before losing it completely. Dashing through their bedroom, he slammed the door of the master bath and fell to his knees, gagging and choking, watching his dinner and his dreams disappear down the cold porcelain throat of the toilet. _This can not be happening_ , he told himself as he clung, shaking, to the rim. _This can not possibly be happening._ Timmy was all about commitment, all about devotion, all about investing everything he had into the ideal of happily-ever-after. With Timmy, he’d always been enough -- good enough, smart enough, strong enough, enough in bed, enough to lean on, enough to love -- just plain enough. When had that changed? When had Timmy started wanting more, needing more, maybe even -- and the thought made him retch again miserably -- actively seeking more? When had his heart, sorry battered thing that it was, stopped being safe in Timmy’s hands? He wanted to know, yet he didn’t, sure that as painful as the wondering was, hearing the wrong answer would be much worse.

Donald lost track of time, sitting there on the bathroom floor, oblivious to the smell of vomit, the sour taste in his mouth, the wetness running down his cheeks, unchecked and unnoticed. He realized he was waiting, though he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Just waiting. Waiting for some comfort, some release, some…something. Someone.

Timmy. He was waiting for Timmy to come check on him. For Timmy to fall to the floor and gather him in his arms and tell him that he was wrong, that he didn’t want anyone else, that he never had and never would, that he’d rather die than rip their life apart this way. But as the minutes ticked by and Timmy didn’t come, it grew horribly apparent that he wasn’t going to come, that in all likelihood Timmy would never come for him again. The certainty hardened into a painful fist, cramping his stomach and squeezing the air out of his lungs. He had to get out of there.

Forcing himself to stand on legs that still shook uncontrollably, he flushed the toilet and washed his hands and face, then grabbed his toothbrush and scrubbed his teeth until his gums bled, unable to wash the taste of abandonment from his mouth. Grabbing his deodorant and shaving gear, he stumbled into the bedroom. He snatched his old duffel bag out of the closet and started stuffing clothing into it without rhyme or reason, not even noticing what he was grabbing, intent on simply filling the damned bag and getting the hell out. He yanked open the top drawer on his side of the bed and it flew loose from its stand, contents spilling across the floor. Dropping to his knees, he gathered handfuls of socks and underwear, pausing when his hand fell on the small box he’d kept hidden there. For a moment he held it, his face twisted in purest pain. Then he was on his feet and hurling the box with all his might, sending it crashing into the mirror.

Flying glass stung his face, glittered against his shirt, crunched underfoot. But Donald barely noticed, let alone cared. His hand fell on a framed photograph -- the two of them in suits, happy and hopeful, on the day of their commitment ceremony. Tasting bile, he clutched the photo and drew back his hand, intending to hurl it as well. He couldn’t do it. Gagging on a sob, he dropped the picture into his bag instead and closed it with a vicious yank on the zipper. Then he was thundering down the stairs and out the door, barely glancing at Timmy, who still sat right where he’d left him, staring down at his folded hands.

Donald jerked the car door open and tossed his bag into the passenger seat, then slid in after it, grabbing the door handle and intending to slam it closed with a cathartic bang. But a pair of slender hands clutched it, white-knuckled and surprisingly strong, holding it in place.

“Let go,” Donald ground out through teeth clenched so tight white hot bolts of pain shot through his jaw.

“Donald, please wait. Don’t do this.”

“You don’t want ME to do this? What the fuck? You want an open marriage? Well buddy, you got it. It’s as wide open as you could want. Now…get…your…hands…off…my…fucking…door.”

Slowly, Timmy released the door and let his hands fall to his sides, his face a study in misery. For the briefest instant, Donald softened, longed to reach out to him and pull him close, squeezing him hard enough to drive the pain out of him forever. But then he hardened, and a part of him, a part he loathed even then, thought _Good. I’m glad he hurts. Let him see how the other half lives._ Then the door closed and he was peeling out of the driveway, nearly slamming into the neighbor’s Buick because he didn’t see it, couldn’t see anything, in fact, except the stricken look on Timmy’s face.

* * * *

Donald drove in circles for nearly an hour, trying to figure out where the hell to go from there. He couldn’t go to the office because that was the first place Timmy would look, if he cared to look, which was a toss-up at that point. He wanted to get a room and a fifth, not necessarily in that order, and quietly melt down someplace where he couldn’t be seen, couldn’t be heard, couldn’t be the object of curiosity or amusement, or worse, pity. But he didn’t have any cash on him and couldn’t use their credit card because Timothy was undoubtedly smart enough to trace the charges and figure out where to find him. So he used an ATM and stocked up at the liquor store, then checked into the crummiest sleep-cheap the city had to offer, because Timothy, the anal retentive bastard, had set their withdrawal limit at a hundred dollars per twenty-four hour period, and there was no way to override that. No way in hell.

He spent that night swilling Maker’s Mark out of a brown paper bag and the next day puking, too disgusted with himself to face his own reflection in the mirror, let alone go to the office or start sorting out the mess he‘d made of his life. Around eight o’clock that evening, he filled the sink with cold water and held his head under until he could think clearly enough to drive, then left the room for the first time. His first stop was the ATM machine followed by a second hand store, where he picked up a pair of table lamps and a drop light, because even with all the lights in his room on, it was still too dark, too filled with shadow and achingly real memories. He dropped by a mini mart for beer and a ham sandwich and to gas up the car, then swung by the same liquor store he’d hit the night before, stocking up on Maker’s and, just for the hell of it, a fifth of Jim Beam as well.

Because, as he saw it, he had no choice in the matter, he drove by the house, idling at the end of the block for some time and staring up at the second story windows, willing a light to click on, a familiar shadow to appear in silhouette against the bedroom shades. But the house remained dark and depressingly still, so he returned to the motel, where he spent another night drinking, this time alternating shots of Beam with the Maker’s, chasing each with a tepid bottle of Bud. The ham sandwich, already well past its prime, rotted quietly on the dash of his car.

He slept through most of the next day, arising that evening to a room ablaze with light that didn’t even begin to penetrate the darkness inside him. He forced himself to shower and shave, then left the room once more, his mind set on finding himself a pretty piece of young male ass. But as he searched bar after bar, his eyes kept locking on the still beautiful but not so young, the dark haired and fine-featured and visibly upscale. They were pretty, all so pretty, but all fell short of the mark because every last one of them was just a weak and washed-out version of the one he wanted, the only one he could ever want.

 _Timmy_.

Admitting defeat, he finally dragged himself back to his car and forced himself to pick up the cell phone he’d tossed aside two days before. There were 37 messages in all, two from Kenny and the rest from Timmy. Some of them sounded flat, some angry, some frantic, and the final one, left earlier that evening, heart-wrenchingly broken, all consisting of the same concise plea: “Call me, Donald. Please. Just call me.”

Suddenly unable to bear the separation any longer, he shoved the car into gear and raced home, having no idea what he was going to say or do once he arrived there but knowing beyond a doubt that “there” was the only place in the world he needed to be. His heart sank as he pulled into the driveway. The house looked every bit as dark and lifeless as he’d felt himself the past couple of days. But it was late; maybe Timmy had simply given up for the night and gone to bed. Stung by guilt at the thought of Timmy lying alone in the darkness of that cold bed, worried sick about him and wondering where he‘d gone, he barreled through the front door and took the stairs two at a time, calling Timmy’s name in a voice hoarse with emotion.

But Timmy wasn’t there. The house was as dead and deserted as it had appeared from the outside. A quick inventory found Tim’s toothbrush in its place, his suitcase and shaving kit undisturbed on the top shelf of the closet, his briefcase by the front door. As he rushed from room to room, Donald clicked on light switch after light switch in a frantic effort to banish the darkness. But all the light in the world didn’t seem to be enough without Timmy there. Thoroughly spooked, Donald returned to their bedroom and sat on Timmy’s side of the bed, fingering the edge of his pillowcase as he tried to gather his thoughts. All of Timmy’s things were where they should be. Nothing was missing. As late as it was, Timmy had simply stepped out for a bit, not -- and Donald shuddered at the very thought -- not taken off for good. But it was past midnight, and Timmy was no night owl. At this hour, where in the hell could he have gone?

Forcefully pushing aside the suspicion that Timmy might not just be out, but out with someone else, Donald wandered down to the kitchen, his mind on knocking back a tumbler of vodka to steady himself. But as he reached for the bottle of Belvedere, a thought struck him. Setting the bottle on the counter, he stuck his hand into the small cubby under the bar, the one where Timmy still kept Watson’s leash and collar, his dish and rubber ball and his favorite old chew toy. As he’d suspected, the leash was missing.

Back in the car, Donald began combing the neighborhood, following the paths where Timmy had once taken Watson on their nightly strolls. He knew Timmy missed the dog terribly, and he also knew -- though Timmy didn’t know he knew -- that when Timmy was upset or depressed, he’d wander their old route late at night, his hand gripping Watson’s leash in his pocket. Judging from the tone of his last message, Timmy was both upset and depressed, so….

It had begun misting by the time he’d left the house, and now a light but steady rain was falling. The decrepit wiper blades left wet streaks across his line of vision. Timmy hated getting wet. The thought of him caught blocks from home, slogging along miserably as the rain soaked his clothes caused Donald to fret further. He increased his speed, rubbing at the fogged-up windshield in an effort to see. He’d made the rounds twice and was ready to have a third go of it when he finally spotted a hint of motion in the light of a streetlamp. It was Timmy, inching along the opposite side of the street, hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders hunched forward against the rain. Skidding to a stop in the middle of the intersection, Donald rolled down a window and called his name.

Timmy halted and turned slowly, head tilting to the side as he searched for the origin of the voice. When he spotted Donald’s car he just stood there, frozen in the one soft pool of light in that dark and desolate wasteland. Visibly gathering himself, he stepped into the street.

Donald felt the truck’s presence before he saw it, and was out of his car and hurtling forward before his mind registered the screech of tires, the sight of Timmy’s form thrown out of the light and going down, crumpling into the shadows.

Something between a wail and a roar ripped the inside of Donald’s throat. He shot across the street, oblivious to the threat of oncoming traffic, and hit the pavement hard, a sickening pain shooting through his right knee as it connected with asphalt. But that was nothing to the pain of Timmy’s limp, unresponsive silence as Donald hefted him into his arms, alternately pleading with him to open his eyes and roaring inarticulately. The driver of the pickup, a thin-faced adolescent, chanted _OhGodOhGodOhGod_ in a reedy voice as he fumbled with his cell phone. Donald snatched it out of his hands and dialed 911, then shoved it back at him and shut him out, shut it all out -- the rain, the pain in his knee, the distant sound of sirens, narrowing his world down to Timmy, to just Timmy, to the necessity of holding onto Timmy, because as long as he didn’t let go, Timmy would be all right.

He had to be.

When the EMTs arrived, they had to physically pry Donald’s fingers loose from Timmy's arms in order to load him into the ambulance. Wailing inconsolably at the loss, Donald tried to scramble in after him, but his right knee gave and he sprawled in the street, his fingers clutching empty air where Timmy had been only moments before. Then two pair of burly arms gathered him up, and he was hefted into the ambulance as well.

* * * *

Hours later, Donald hovered over Timmy’s bed, swaying weakly on the crutches he’s been given, close, but not quite close enough to touch. He wanted to touch, wanted it fiercely, but since the rules between them had obviously changed, he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

God, his knee hurt. He’d broken it, shattered the kneecap, but had allowed only the bare-bones minimum treatment during triage, assuring the resident in E.R. that he’d have it seen to properly once Timmy was out of the woods. Amid much head shaking and protests, he’d been granted a run of painkillers he still hadn’t bothered to take, because through some twisted logic he couldn’t explain, even to himself, it seemed wrong to feel better when Timmy’s life could be hanging in the balance. No danger. In addition to the shooting pains coursing through his knee, his head ached, as did his chest and belly, all three plaguing him with a tense and throbbing misery that could only be relieved by the sight of Timmy’s eyes fluttering open.

Dawn had come and gone, but night still hung heavy over the room, making Donald shiver. The rain continued; there would probably be little sun that day. Only a single soft light glowed over the head of the bed, leaving most of the room in bitter, accusing shadow. Donald kept his eyes away from the corners, afraid of what he might see there.

It seemed several lifetimes had passed since the accident. Timmy’d been rushed to E.R. and then to surgery to repair -- what? A torn liver? A ruptured spleen? The surgeon had spoken to him at length about the procedure, but the details ran together in his head like so many tears in the rain. He’d grasped the basics: internal bleeding, broken ribs and wrist and nose, a compound fracture in his leg and a concussion. The long and short of it was that when Timmy awoke he was going to be in pain, a lot of it, and that he’d carry scars to remind him of it for the rest of his life.

It was all Donald’s fault. All of it. And even if Timmy did manage to forgive him for it, he knew deep down that he’d never, ever be able to forgive himself.

At least Timmy was going to be all right -- eventually. The bones would mend, the incisions would heal, the pain would fade and vanish. But would they ever be all right again? Were they even a _they_ anymore, or were they just two not-quite-strangers who’d hurt and disappointed each other, never to hold or touch or soothe each other again? Could Donald survive on his own anymore? Did he even have the heart to try?

In the aftermath of Kyle, Donald had trudged through the motions of living in an apathetic fog, eating most of his meals cold out of cans or boxes, fucking anything that would hold still long enough and not insist on the pretense of affection, drinking himself to sleep every night and awaking hung over and disgusted with himself every morning. Then Timmy had come along and taken charge of his life, sorting his socks and dressing his wounds, making sure he ate and slept at reasonably regular intervals, bringing a sense of order to his world, a feeling of permanence and at long last, peace. And he’d done it all with a quiet, non-threatening efficiency that Donald, who knew himself to be the least subtle of men, couldn’t help but admire. Healer, organizer, guardian of his heart, that was Timothy. How could he go on without that clear, bright light in his life?

Timmy made a small sound in his sleep, shifted his head on the pillow before settling once again. The nurse had assured Donald that he’d come to after the surgery, that he had been lucid and responsive, answering their questions and asking a few of his own before drifting off again. She hadn’t mentioned if any of his questions had been about Donald, and he didn’t ask, afraid of what her answer might be. If Timmy’d asked for him, there was still hope, but if not….

Timmy stirred again, wincing as he struggled up through the layers of trauma and drugs to regain consciousness. When his eyes finally opened, they were dilated and confused, darting around the room as he tried to get his bearings. He tried to lift his injured hand, flinched again, moaned softly. Donald wanted nothing more than to scoop him up right then and there, to beg his forgiveness and offer whatever comfort Timmy would allow, but he seemed to be frozen in place, unable to move or even speak past the lump in his throat. Then Timmy’s gaze settled on him and he swallowed, swallowed again, and finally managed a hoarse, “Hey.”

“Hey.” The response was weak and breathy, without inflection.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sick.”

Donald inched forward, eyeing the plastic basin on the bedside tray. “Think you’re gonna throw up?”

Timothy gulped, caught his breath. “Maybe. The room’s spinning. Everything hurts.”

“Do you need something for the pain? Should I call the nurse?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Come on, there’s no sense in hurting any more than you have to. Let me call her.”

“It doesn’t matter. Leave it alone, Don. I don’t want the nurse.”

“Okay.” Balancing on one crutch, Donald started to reach for Timmy’s hand but caught himself and jammed his fist in his pocket instead, not sure if he could stand the rejection if Timmy didn’t want him, didn’t want to be touched. He watched Tim take note, saw the wounded look in his eyes. Dammit, every call he made seemed to be the wrong one. Hesitantly, he took a step forward. “Do you remember what happened?”

“They said there was an accident.”

“Yeah. You were out walking in the rain. I was looking for you, and when I called your name, you…you stepped out in front of a truck. God, Timmy, I am so sorry. I know I always seem to be saying that, but it’s true. I am so, so sorry.“

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ, would you stop saying that? You could have been killed and it would have been my fault. If I’d been home with you instead of off sulking with my head up my ass, you wouldn’t have been out walking in the middle of the night and this would never have happened. How in the hell can you say it doesn’t matter?”

Timmy drew a measured breath. “I’m an adult, Donald, whether you choose to believe it or not. I make my own decisions and my own mistakes, and I live with it. You are not responsible for me. If I can get that through my thick head, I’m sure you can get it through yours.”

The effort of trying to talk was taking a toll on Tim. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and he caught his breath and held it, obviously trying to ride out the pain. But when Donald leaned forward to hush him, Timmy shot him an angry glare and continued. “One way or another, it doesn’t matter. None of this does. And excuse me if I sound maudlin, but at this point, I really don‘t see how anything could matter ever again.”

“Don’t you say that,” Donald said, fighting a rising panic. “Don’t you ever say that. You’re hurting now, but that’s gonna be over soon and I’ll get to take you home. You’ll feel better once I get you home.”

“Is it still home? For both of us?”

“Of course it is! Why would you even ask that?”

“You left me. I thought it might be for good. You wouldn’t return my calls….”

Donald took another step closer. “I left the situation, Timmy, not you. I was freaking out and scared I’d say or do something you wouldn’t be able to forgive. I admit I was acting like an idiot….”

Timmy didn‘t disagree. “Your reaction…took me by surprise.”

Donald studied his shoes, unable to meet Timmy’s eyes. “You took me by surprise. I knew you weren’t happy anymore, but….” he trailed off, not sure where to go from there. “I should have seen it coming, I guess. All these years of staying faithful to each other…it’s probably more than most gay couples manage. Hell, I make my living proving it’s more than most straight couples manage, too. At least you were honest with me. You made what I guess you thought was a perfectly reasonable suggestion, and I…”

“Left me.”

“I just had to get out for a while. I had to get my head around it. God, Timmy, the thought of you seeing other men…the thought of you wanting other men….”

Tim made a harsh, choking noise and Donald looked up to meet blue eyes wide with shock. “I do not want to see other men!”

Donald went weak in the knees. He closed the remaining distance between them, griping the bedrail to steady himself. “Then why the hell did you say you did?”

“I never said any such thing! I asked you if that was what you wanted, then you went crazy and ran out on me. It was for you, to give you some breathing room if you wanted it. I don’t want to share you, but if the only alternative is losing you….” Timmy swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t stand the thought of losing you.” Donald stared down at him, replaying the conversation in his head. Could this be true? Could he have reacted to what he‘d _thought_ he‘d heard rather than to what Timothy had actually said? Could all of this have been just some huge misunderstanding? “I don‘t want to lose you, either,” he said at last.

Tim was watching him closely, chewing on his bottom lip. “So I take it you’d like to see this relationship continue? You want to stay together in spite of all this?”

“Of course I do!”

“Good.” Tim closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath. “Good. This is hard for me, Donald. It’s not the way I was raised, and I’d be lying if I said I liked it. But if you sleep with other people, as long as you come home to me at the end of the night, I suppose I can deal with it. I’ll just have to deal with it.”

Donald felt as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. For what seemed an eternity he struggled, his chest on fire as he tried to remember how to breathe. Then Timmy opened his eyes and looked at him with such painful longing that the air rushed back in a tortuous gasp. When he released it, it was with the cry of a wounded animal.

“Why the bloody fucking hell would I want to sleep with anyone besides you? We’re married! Married! Do you have any idea what that means to me? The thought of touching anyone else like that…of letting them touch me…it makes me want to puke! What have I ever done, what have I ever said….”

“Trapped,” Tim said so quietly Donald could hardly hear him past the blood pounding in his ears. “You said you feel trapped.” Then he was crying and Donald was crying, and somehow Donald was on the bed beside him, doing his best to tie himself in a knot around Timmy as they both sobbed and shook, clinging to each other in desperation.

* * * *

Donald clutched Timmy as hard as he dared, trying to force what was left of his protein-deprived, alcohol-addled brain cells to function. That was what this was all about? That night in the bar? How could he have not known that? And how could Timmy think….  
“Not by you! Never by you! God, Timmy, I thought you understood. Before you came along, I was drowning. You taught me how to keep my head above water and breathe again. For the first time in years, you made me want to breathe.”

“I thought I was the one drowning you. I was so afraid you regretted this. That you regretted us. I’ve always tried to give you space when you need it, but….”

“I don’t want space! When you pull away it scares the hell out of me! Kyle pulled away and he….” Choking on the words, Donald burrowed into Timmy’s neck, torn by loud, hacking sobs that jarred them both.

“I am not Kyle! I’d never do that to you. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never pull away from you again, I promise. Never again.”

Donald sobbed harder, clutching Timmy’s hair and hospital gown. Timmy wrapped his arms around him, stroking his hair and holding him close, whispering words of comfort even though he was crying nearly as hard himself. Donald felt a surge of guilt, suspecting he should be the one comforting Timmy instead of the other way around. He was out of control and knew it, but there was nothing he could do but hang on for dear life and get it out, get it all out so neither of them would have to deal with it ever again.

They lay together afterward, wrung out and stunned, touching each other in little strokes and pats, each reassuring himself the other was still there. Donald’s eyes were dry at last, gritty and inflamed to the point where he heard the lids creak with every blink. Tears still ran down Timmy’s cheeks in a freefall, though he was silent, overwhelmed to the point of shellshock, it seemed. Every once in a while, Donald would dab away the moisture on Timmy’s face with his fingertips, softly touch his lips to Timmy’s, kiss his eyelids, repeat his name as if it were an endearment.

“When you said that word,” Timmy said, “that awful word, it floored me. Nothing ever scared me that bad in my whole life. With one word, you seemed to be rejecting your whole life, our life together, me.”

“Why the hell didn’t you just tell me? If this has been eating away at you all this time, why didn’t you just ask me what I meant? It’s not like you to bottle stuff up like that.”

“I suppose I was afraid of what the answer might be. Before we got together, you were such a free spirit sexually….”

“Free spirit? Hell, call it what it is, Timothy. I was a whore. I’m not proud of that part of my life, but I’ve always been honest with you about it. I must’ve fucked about a thousand guys back then, and I can’t remember a single face, never bothered to ask a single name. I never let any of them in. They weren’t even people to me. They were just body parts, and as long as I saw them that way….”

“As long as you saw them that way, they couldn’t hurt you the way Kyle did.”

Donald closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing, his jaw clenching and unclenching in a steady rhythm. “Yeah,” he said at last. “That’s about the size of it.”

Donald felt gentle fingers brush his face, then clutch spasmodically at his hair. “And now I’m the one who hurt you,” Timmy said in a broken voice. “I’m so sorry, Donald. There’s no excuse for me putting you through all this. I…” Timmy choked on the words. Donald pressed their cheeks together, clinging to some half-formed notion that if he could just absorb the moisture there into his own skin, he’d draw the sadness out of Timmy as well. He’d seen Timmy cry a scant handful of times during their years together -- over the estrangement with his father, his grandmother’s death, a couple of Donald‘s more grisly injuries, the loss of Watson -- but not like this. Nothing like this.

“You screwed up and so did I. But none of it was on purpose. You don’t have it in you to hurt me or anyone else on purpose. That’s why I love you.”

“Still….”

“Still nothing. All you did was give me a taste of my own medicine,“ Donald said in a sudden burst of clarity. “I panicked and ran the first time you shut me out, but that’s exactly what I’ve been doing to you all along, isn’t it? You’ve put up with me holding back and shutting you out for years, and I’ve never heard you complain once. You’ve been so patient with me. I don’t know how you put up with it.“

“I’ve never looked at it like that. I was just trying to give you what you need.”

“I need you,“ Donald said fervently. “And sometimes I need you to give me a good, hard kick in the ass. Honey, I am so sorry for every secret I’ve kept from you, for every time I’ve clammed up on you or made you feel like I didn’t trust you. And I’m so sorry we never talked out the trapped thing. I knew what that had to have done to you. I would have curled up in a ball and died if you’d said that to me. I was so wrapped up in myself and in that damned case that I never stopped to think what you might be going through. Jesus, how could I have been such a self-centered prick?”

“You’re not a prick,” Timmy said, stoking his face soothingly with his good hand. “I’m a busy man. I wouldn’t waste my time on a prick.”

“Yeah, well. It’s all gonna change now, you can put your money on that one. I‘m gonna make it up to you. And you’re going to sit down and shut up and let me, you got that? If you’re sure you still want me after everything I‘ve put you through, that is. If you still think I‘m worth hanging onto.”

Timmy‘s mouth quirked up at the corner. It wasn‘t quite a smile, but it came close. “Hanging onto you is the easiest thing in the world. Knowing when to let go is the hard part.”

“Then don’t do it. Don’t ever let go. God, Timmy, please. Don’t you ever let me go.” They clung together, exhausted and overwrought, with Donald barely maintaining the presence of mind to be careful of Timmy’s injuries when all he really wanted was to crawl beneath his very skin and never come out again. When he finally calmed down, he cupped Timmy’s chin and forced him to meet his gaze. “You know I’m lousy with words, but we need to be clear on something. I’ve never, ever felt trapped by you. When I said that, I was talking about my career and the choices that were taken away from me, the choices I should have had the chance to make on my own. I don’t regret where I ended up, just the way I got here. You’re not the only one who wouldn‘t trade his life with anyone, you got that? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I understand what you’re trying to say, but you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t have some regrets. You lost the love of your life….”

“I lost the love of my _youth_ , Timmy. I’ve got the love of my life right here, right now. And I’m never going to let you go again.”

They shifted so Timmy could settle more or less on his side, his head on Donald’s chest. He sucked in a sharp breath at the movement, moaned softly. Donald pressed the nurse’s call button then tugged his shirttail free, using it to mop first Timmy’s face and then his own. Timmy looked like bloody hell -- runny-nosed, waterlogged and battered within an inch of his life, red splotches burning like fever on his cheeks. If the way he was feeling was any indication, Donald figured he was pretty much in the same boat. When the nurse walked in, she gave them a hard look but didn’t comment, simply checked Tim’s incision and his vital signs, then switched out his IV bag and administered pain killer. Timmy clutched Donald’s arm the whole time, eyes locked on his as if seeking reassurance. It hurt him to think it might be some time before Timmy felt secure again, but Donald was going to make damned sure it happened, and that it happened soon.

Once the nurse left, Donald stretched to turn out the light and settled in for the duration, wrapping himself around Timmy in what was not so much an embrace as a living body cast, one arm cradling Timmy’s broken wrist and the other looped around his waist, carefully positioned to avoid pressure on either the cracked ribs or the incision. His left leg braced Timmy’s broken one while his own injured limb lay propped on top of Timmy’s good one, its nagging ache momentarily forgotten. Shifting them both inch by inch, irrationally convinced that if he moved too fast or was too rough, Timmy might actually break, he helped Timmy settle his head against his shoulder, his breath warm against Donald’s neck. They were small motions all, a subtle dance of sorts, carefully choreographed to anchor Timmy to him, to let him know that neither of them was going anywhere without the other in tow. Not then, not ever.

Once the meds kicked in, Timmy slipped easily into sleep, his fingers tangled in Donald’s hair, mouth open and snoring softly because between the broken nose and the crying jag, he was too congested to breath properly. Exhausted to the core but afraid to shut his eyes, Donald stood guard, listening to the steady rain outside and soothing Timmy back under whenever a thunder clap threatened to wake him.

As he watched Timmy sleep, he contemplated the storms of his life, the ones he’d lived through in the past and this most recent one, the one he knew he couldn’t have weathered if they hadn’t settled this thing at last. All the while, ghosts fluttered in the corners like bats in a cave. The parents who’d foretold his failures. The teachers who’d assured the lonely, angry child that he was too lazy, too weak, too hostile to ever amount to anything. Army officials who eyed him with smug distaste as they handed him his discharge papers. And Kyle, most of all Kyle, who hovered in silent, sullen reproach, though Donald had long since committed his accusations to memory.

_I loved you, Don. I trusted you. And look where it got me. You betrayed me._

_No_ , Donald told him. _No. You’re wrong. Lying would have been the betrayal. Denying what you meant to me would have been betrayal. I know what love is now. I’ve always known I was capable of giving it, though God knows what you did made me doubt myself. And Timmy’s spent years showing me what it feels like to receive it. I know you wanted me. In your own way, you probably even needed me. But you can’t do what you did and call it love. I would have walked through fire for you, but at the first sign of trouble, you left me in the cruelest, most cowardly, selfish way possible. War hero, my ass. Timmy’s ten times the man you were. My life’s as full as a life can get, and I’m not going to waste another second of it pining over what-ifs and feeling guilty over something that wasn’t my fault. I’m done with you. Go haunt somebody else._

Late in the afternoon, the storm broke, and though his back was to the window, Donald could tell by the shifting shadows that the cloud cover was thinning, that the sun was struggling to break through. Inexplicably relieved, he finally allowed himself to relax, carefully shifting so he could press an ear to Timmy’s chest. He heard the reassuring sound of Timmy’s heartbeat and became peripherally aware of his own, smiling sleepily as he realized the two were altering themselves subtly, each gradually falling in sync with the other. He closed his eyes, content, and felt himself beginning to drift, but was startled awake by a faint stirring against him. Timmy opened his eyes and blinked in momentary confusion.

“Hey, beautiful,“ Donald said softly, stroking Timmy’s cheek with his thumb. Then their gazes locked and Timmy smiled at him, really _smiled_ for the first time in months, his expression one of forgiveness and trust and boundless love.  
In that instant, the sun broke through the clouds, flooding the room with the purest light Donald had ever known, banishing the last of his ghosts forever.


End file.
